ny loved him--a captain he was then. He
always looked after their dinner. A bit strict, too, but they don't mind
that."

Jenny was busy with Stella Croyle's hair; and the result satisfied her.

"There won't be anybody else to-night, madam," she said.

"Won't there, Jenny?" said Mrs. Croyle, incredulously. "There'll be Miss
Whitworth."

Jenny Prask sniffed disdainfully.

"Miss Whitworth! A fair sight I call her, madam, if I may say so. I
never did see such clothes! And how she keeps a maid for more than a
week beats me altogether. What I say, madam, is those who button in
front when they should hook behind are a fair washout."

Stella laughed.

"I'm afraid that you'll find, Jenny, that Miss Whitworth will hook
behind to-night."

Jenny went on unaffected by the rejoinder. She had her little item of
news to contribute to the contentment of her mistress.

"Besides, Miss Whitworth is in love with the foreign gentleman. Oh,
madam, if you turn as sharp as that, I can't but pull your hair."

"Which foreigner?"

"That Mario Escobar." Jenny looked over Stella's head and into the
reflection of her eyes upon the mirror. "I don't hold with foreigners
myself, madam. A little ridiculous they always seem to me, with their
chatter and what not."

"And you believe Miss Whitworth's in love with him."

"Outrageous, Mr. Harper says. Quite the talk of the servants' hall, it
is. Why, even this afternoon she wrote him a letter. Mr. Harper showed
it me after he took it out of the letter-box to post it. 'That's her
'and,' says he--and there it was, Mario Escobar, Esquire, the Golden Sun
Hotel, Midhurst----"

"Midhurst?" cried Stella with a start. She looked eagerly at the
reflection of Jenny Prask. "Mr. Escobar is staying in an hotel at
Midhurst?"

"Yes, madam."

"And Miss Whitworth wrote to him there this afternoon?"

"It's gospel truth, madam. May it be my last dying word, if it isn't!"
said Jenny Prask.

The blood mounted into Stella Croyle's face. Since that was true--and
she did not doubt Jenny Prask for a moment--Jenny would have given
anything she had to save her mistress trouble, and Stella knew it. Since
it was true, then, that Mario Escobar was staying hidden away in a
country hotel five miles off, and that Joan was writing to him, why,
after all, she had no rival.

Her spirits rose with a bound. She had a week, a whole week, in the
company of Harry Luttrell; and what might she not do in a week if she
used he